


Attrition

by monimala



Category: The Originals (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Gap Filler, I'm Going to Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 20:27:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2825108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An alternate version of the events at Davina's family cabin in episode 2.4, "Live and Let Die."</p>
<p>He orders her like a man not used to being disobeyed. And even though Davina’s in charge — <i>she’s</i> the boss of <i>him</i> — she finds herself acquiescing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Attrition

“The ability to endure pain is the warrior’s true weapon. Master that and nothing holds power over you.” He stands over her, calm and smug and terrifying. Like he’s lecturing at the front of a classroom. The Art of War According to Mikael. When she doesn’t move, just continues to huff and sniffle through the fiery throb of her snapped ankle, his jaw tightens and his lip curls. “I said. On. Your. Feet.” 

He orders her like a man not used to being disobeyed. And even though Davina’s in charge — _she’s_ the boss of _him_ — she finds herself acquiescing. Because it’s a dare. A challenge.

Agony radiates from her toes to her heel. The staff digs splinters into her palm as she leverages it so she can stand. But, fuck Mikael, she will not let weakness beat her. She’ll stand. She’ll face him. And she’s almost proud of herself for pushing past the pain. There’s nearly respect in his eyes when she does.

“Good,” he murmurs, like she’s a puppy that learned a new trick. “Maybe you’ve actually learned something today.”

If this is how he raised his sons, it’s no wonder they’re psychotic.

Seconds tick by. A minute. Her leg starts to shake as she leans heavily on the crude quarterstaff. _It hurts, oh shit, it hurts so bad._ His smile is feral and delighted.

She can command him to carry her back to the cabin. She should. She defiantly juts out her chin and breathes through gritted teeth. Beads of sweat pop out all over her face. Her foot begins to go from too hot to nearly numb. But she doesn’t look away. And she doesn’t deliver the words he’s, no doubt, waiting to hear.

_Teach me to be strong_ , she’d said to him. Well, she’s a quick study.

“Oh, little witch.” He chuckles, watching her like a vulture might carrion. “I can hear your heart. It’s pounding with so much rebellion.”

“You’re sick,” she tells him, hating the quaver in her voice. “You’re completely insane.”

“Yes.” He doesn’t even bother disagreeing. And then he moves in a blink and sweeps her into his arms, kicking the staff across the grass. No commands necessary. No orders. Just the shocking revelation of him taking her back inside as if it’s the normal thing to do after kicking her ass.

His chest is hard beneath her still-startled and grasping fingers. He smells like the woods and sweat and something far older. And he pays her petty protests and whimpers as much mind as he would a kitten’s. _No_ , Davina immediately corrects herself. _He probably strangles kittens for fun._

He deposits her in a chair before the unlit fireplace, his annoyance with her clear. Practically making a neon sign out of _“I broke you, now I have to fix you.”_

“I can’t believe you were ever married,” she blurts out before she can think better of it.

His pale eyebrows arch in surprise. “I can assure you, I most certainly was.”

“You’re not even nice,” she points out, shifting to try and minimize how much she hurts.

He laughs at her scornfully before he drops into the empty chair beside her. “ ‘Nice’ is not a requirement of marriage, child,” he murmurs as he lifts her injured foot into his lap. “Or of _any_ relationship. The sooner you realize that, the more prepared you will be.”

Unlike before, when he was merciless, his touch is light as he works off her shoe and sock. Her ankle is purpling, the flesh around the bone swollen and round. She tries not to cry out as he probes the area with his fingertips, but she fails. The trapped animal sound is probably one he’s used to. It probably turns him on. “Ah,” he says, almost to himself. “Not so brave now, are we?”

“Let me kick you in the balls and see how brave _you_ feel.” Davina flexes her toes in the general direction of the items in question, only to be rewarded with more twinges of pain. “Damn it.”

Mikael clicks his tongue, chiding her for the language _and_ the bravado. And then he raises his wrist to his mouth and bites down. Blood wells up immediately from the ragged wound and he extends his hand. “Drink. Heal.”

She has made the same gesture a dozen times since awakening him. She’s even fed his son. Reciprocity is…dangerous. “I can’t. If I die with your blood in me, I’ll turn.”

“Then don’t die,” he suggests, matter-of-factly.

Her mouth drops open as she huffs, “You’d kill me yourself if you could!”

The reminder doesn’t bother him one bit. “Drink,” he repeats. “You can’t afford weakness, little witch. And neither can I.”

Her lips close around the torn skin of his wrist almost of their own volition. She tastes copper and fire and something bittersweet. Just a few drops. Just one long sip. The throb in her ankle fades away to nothing, replaced by a throb of another kind. Low in her belly. Between her thighs. No _._ She jerks backward, shoving his arm away and scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand.

“It happens.” Unperturbed, he tilts his head to the hard ridge of his groin. “Monstrosity and ecstasy go very well together.”

“I hate you.” She swings her foot off his lap, tries to stand on it.

“You own me,” is all he says in response.

They both know that’s a lie.

**

He could’ve broken her as soon as healed her. Torn her leg from its socket and flung it across the room. This is what he reminds himself as he stares up at her, feeling the thrum of his blood in her veins. A drop still clings to the corner of her pouting, perfect mouth. A ruby red beauty mark. _His_ mark.

They’ve both tasted of each other now. Shared an unholy communion. Deeper than what their passably mortal bodies think is between them. Mikael knows better than to put stock in sexual attraction. It’s blood that’s fueled him for centuries. And yet he must acknowledge that his witch was beautiful today in that field. That she is beautiful now. To do otherwise would be cowardice, and he does not truck with such emotion.

Her brows wing together. He hears her breath locking in her chest. “Why are you looking at me that way?” she demands, so gloriously uncomfortable with her want and her need.

_You own me,_ he’d said to her. “Because I’ve no choice,” he says to her now.

He slides his open palms up along her legs, waiting for her to cast him backward, banish him to his room. But she doesn’t move. Not even when he grips her hips and tugs her close once more. 

_“I can’t believe you were ever married.”_

So much disbelief. So much doubt. She would be shocked to know that he’d loved Esther once. That they’d enjoyed their marital bed and lustily created their children in it. He almost recalls how to be that man.

A sigh escapes Davina’s parted lips. He imagines she must taste of him. And then he finds out.

**

She should tell him to stop. She should zap him out of the room. She shouldn’t kiss him.

But she does.

Because he’s as ruthless and give-no-quarter in this as he is teaching her to fight. Pulling her between his thighs, burying one hand in the hair at the base of her skull, slanting his mouth against hers and sucking at her lower lip.

It’s the blood sharing. That has to be it. Drinking from a vampire is like second base —he’s already touched her over her clothes, and now they have to have more. But she can’t deny it. Can’t pretend it’s not happening. She can only ride it out.

She arches, grabbing onto his bare shoulders, almost climbing him in her rush to match him, meet him, _beat_ him. He won’t knock her down this time. That much she is sure of. He told her that magic could only fight half her battles, and she knows exactly how to fight the other fifty percent. “Do you hear my heart _now_?” she asks him as her teeth close on his earlobe.

He spreads his hand along her spine, cradling her obscenely close. “It beats for me, little witch. It’ll beat its _last_ for me.”

“But not today.” It’s a confirmation, not an order, and a leap of faith.

And when she closes her fingers around Mikael’s staff this time...

She wins.

 

_\--end--_

 

 

 


End file.
